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Forum index » Archive » Archive: Deus City » DC: Deus City

Chapter 10: Ponytail [solved]

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TGI Fridays
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Joined: 12 Jun 2007
Posts: 123

Chapter 10: Ponytail [solved]
Cornerstone Speak-Easy in Grey District

The door closes out the sheets of rain as soft jazzy music fills the dark smoky hideaway. Various private booths and tables are scattered around in the shadows of the dark little hole, which is predominantly dark wood and black in color, but still manages to look dirty. Like Sam's though, no real evidence of corporate intrusion can be seen here, so I'm willing to give it a chance. Even the bottle labels have been soaked off, and I'd swear that the smell of the synth-booze is stronger than normal. The single wall monitor near the door has a sign that reads "out of order" hanging crookedly on it, while dim multicolored lights hanging from ceiling cones cast an eerie glow into each corner of the room without really illuminating any dark place at all. Towards the back a small group is smoking, laughing, and playing poker with a pile of bottle caps at a little round table.
My new friend makes his way to the back of the room, nodding to someone in the shadows as he passes. I'm right behind him, stone faced, but hyper alert to my surroundings. My eyes flick left to the place where the unseen patrons of the bar sit, but either my eyes are still adjusting to the dark or this is the kind of place where people don't like to be seen. On second thought there isn't much of a question about it at all.

Ponytail slides into a hidden niche for two just past the poker players. I slosh into the seat across from him without bothering to remove my hat or coat. Considering the unlikely chance I had gotten it all back, I don't feel like pushing my luck.

"Quaint." I tell him. I'm whispering for some reason. "Never seen a whole hippie bar before."

"Please!" he says unamused, "We prefer 'beatnik' if you don't mind.""What's the difference?"

"We bathe more for one." He says flippantly, then leans in close like he's telling me an important secret. "�but mostly we think more. You should know, you are one of us if the truth be told."

"Another philosopher? You aren't going to start preaching to me about relative truths are you? I've had about as much of that I can stomach."

His smile dies. He replies almost angrily. "Who? Those whacked out priests at that freaky HFU cult? Puh-lease! I'm not talking about this new world order garbage that comes down the digital feeds, I'm talking about good old fashioned Old-world human independence. Maybe you've heard of it?" His mild anger flips like a switch to cordiality. He smiles and leans back. I'm trying to remember the symptoms of schizophrenia, but they aren't coming to me. "You would feel pretty at home here if you gave it half a chance." He says. "You are an antique yourself Detective Sawyer, your warrantee is very expired." He laughs as he says this, it reminds me of a crazy paranoid old uncle I once had. Before the war redefined crazy that is.

"Did you bring me here just to pick on me or did you have something important to share?" I ask him.

He looks long and hard at me, sizing me up. "Time is running out on the world Detective, and God has chosen you!"

"You are crazy." I say.

"Maybe. But then again, maybe I'm just the messenger. Do you believe in God detective?"

I look at him doubtfully. "Yaweh-Alah-G-?"

"-No, I'm talking about God-God-God." He says.

"Nope. Neither one of them." I say. I wonder for a moment what kind of coffee the place has, but the man is suddenly staring at me. Uncomfortable and intense, but there is a gleam in his eye.

"Doesn't matter, he believes in you Sawyer. You are playing a part in something bigger than you realize. Don't feel bad. Most people look without understanding what they are really seeing. Life's bigger than us, bigger than a dead senator and a supposed multiple murder cover up. Bigger than the corrupt media and the corporate machine even... if you can believe in that."

Something about him is making me uncomfortable, but not nervous. I lean back and cross my arms defiantly. "I don't believe in anything that controls me and dictates my identity." I tell him. "I hate our corrupt corporate driven government, I hate the corps and their fake media faces, and I hate these damned chips everybody has to use to survive." I'm a little surprised at my own words, but there they are. A couple of people at the bar give me a sideways glance then go back to nursing their drinks.

Then ponytail is laughing again. "The government's always been this way detective, they just legalized it. Take any of the major corp owners... Mercer, Wright, Moore, and the rest of the corporate assholes. They've just been color coded and tagged to track their migration patterns. You might as well switch all their ID chips around, they are all the same."

"Corrupt and self-serving you mean." He widens his skeleton smile, leaning in even further. His voice is a conspiratorial whisper. "I told you you'd like it here. That's why the world is on borrowed time detective. Greedy immoral men have finally created a society dependent on things that they can no longer control, and we are long overdue for judgment. Fate is reality, and we are living in somebody else's crazy idealistic dream world!"

I narrow my eyes and focus on him with what I might even call a touch of genuine interest � completely professional of course. "So what are you saying? The end is nigh? Some sort of apocalyptic destiny? Please spare me that one, I've been hearing that my whole life but I'm still here."

"Call it what you like. Of course, the people that matter would say that technology progresses too fast for blame to be posted to any one identifiable man, but that's not the point. Our precious self control-"he stops in mid thought as an attractive teenage girl clad all in black sets two glasses of questionable liquid on the table. He nods to her then continues more quietly once she moves on. "...Our precious Self-control is just an illusion Sawyer. And despite what those cathedral types will tell you, fate and destiny are not the same thing."

"I still don't buy it." I say.

He sighs, and then tries a new approach. "Ever play cards detective?"

I glance at the card-clutching group nearby anteing bottle caps into a pile. I acknowledge him with a shrug and a single half-nod. his gaze is extremely intense, his dark eyes piercing and serious, as though he believes that all life itself hangs from his every word should I somehow miss the point of this odd discussion.

"I know a man, a gambler of sorts himself - goes by the name of Theo if you care - who taught me that if the cards you are dealt in life are determined by some unchanging fate, predestination, God... whatever, then your ultimate destiny depends on what you do with those cards... That's free will! That's the human condition! But it doesn't change the fact that even though we may get the final word on most things, our fate is controlled by something higher. Raise, fold, call... we can play the game as long as we don't run out of chips, that part's completely up to us. But the fact is, when the dealer stops dealing cards... the game ends."

"I've heard all this before. I've been working these streets for a long time. I'm afraid I haven't ever seen much evidence to support the existence of this God of yours, and poker never was my game."

He leans back and crosses his arms, mirroring my posture and expression. I wonder if he's about to give up and go. It strikes me that I haven't one shred of evidence from this guy, and I still don't know how he knows me or even what his name is.

"God is in everything Detective, even in you." He says, and begins to slide out of the dirty booth. I reach into my pocket and toss the small black leather book with the silver lettering onto the table with a wet slap.

"Even in 'the machine'?" I ask.

He stands up to go, pulls two bottle caps from his pocket and tosses them on the table. "Ironically, Yea..." He says before I can process his reason for doing it. "And as long as you live by the chip you are still a part of that dying machine. There's only one thing in those little books worth reading though... And it's on the last page. When you figure it out though, be sure to take a sniffer with you."

He turns and takes a step. I hold up my left index finger. "Wait." I say. "You never did give me your name."

"Most recently it's been 'Chris Brown'." he says over his shoulder. "But I'm done with it now." He turns and reaches into his pocket and draws out a grimy little subcue ident chip. He rolls it across the table with his index finger towards me. I watch it bounce off my coat sleeve and stop. The man opens his hand as though gesturing that I may have it. I realize that he has an ugly little scar on his wrist where his own subcue chip used to be but was apparently dug out with no small amount of difficulty.

Then, this man called Chris shakes his head and pulls off his long blond hair and glasses. The hair is just a wig. Underneath his short and shiny black hair is slicked back with too much grease. I'm strangely amused but equally dumbfounded.

"Life is but a dream detective." He says. "I could walk out that door and get hit by the midnight bus line right now... If I don't, then maybe you'll catch me later."

I glance down at the little chip sitting on the table in front of me next to the black book. When I look up I'm not at all surprised that my skiver friend is gone.

I open the book to the last page and my eyes widen as the last clue clicks into place. A big red stamp mark has been stamped on the inside back cover of the book. It reads: "Beneath the Street Press", and below that, a hand written note in a strangely familiar feminine hand:

To whomever this copy finds, may it be an inspiration to you in your new life as it has been to me in mine. �TMM

* * *

The unmarked door of the hideaway beatnik bar slams behind me as I step out into the torrential rain pummeling the dark alleyway. I pull my coat up around me and make my best guesses until I finally find the street.

Out of nowhere a horn honks loud and long. I look up in horror as the headlights of an old style manual drive Transcorp bus comes barreling down upon me out of the rain. I jump back and the bus narrowly misses me, splashing dirty street water onto the broken sidewalk and whatever part of me might somehow have dried while sitting in the bar, and I decide then and there that "God" has a lousy sense of humor in more ways than one.

De Gloria Olivae

Posted: Tue Nov 13, 2007 11:51 pm

Transtar
Decorated

Joined: 01 Jun 2007
Posts: 165
Location: Annapolis, MD

The answer I got comes from a catholic prophecy.

Spoiler (Rollover to View):

Benedict XVI

Positive Karma & 10 Prestige

Posted: Wed Nov 14, 2007 2:09 pm

VQ.Wavecrest
Veteran

Joined: 07 May 2007
Posts: 124
Location: Philadelphia, PA

I can't access either chapter at this point, but the story is interesting, so far. Although the questions at the bottom are a bit odd.

So maybe it's the lack of sleep I've had recently, but any ideas on who TMM is?

Posted: Wed Nov 14, 2007 10:08 pm

Transtar
Decorated

Joined: 01 Jun 2007
Posts: 165
Location: Annapolis, MD

VQ.Wavecrest wrote:

Hint from story: "familiar feminine handwriting"

Spoiler (Rollover to View):

Tara M. Mercer

Posted: Thu Nov 15, 2007 12:31 am

Nick the Wolf
Guest

Well duh

Posted: Thu Nov 15, 2007 1:30 am

Wavecrest-work
Guest

Ah, I should've seen that one... Thanks! Smile

Well, people who contact Sawyer seem to have something bad happen. I just hope that trend stops!

Posted: Fri Nov 16, 2007 5:38 pm

Silent|away
Guest

Remember, techincally Sawyer never existed thanks to that 'worm'.

Posted: Fri Nov 16, 2007 10:25 pm

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